Parental Notice
by Dwimordene
Summary: 2007 movie Bumblebee finds he won't be answering only to Optimus Prime for Sam's safety. Post Mission City. Bumblebee, Sam, and Ron Witwicky. Now featuring chapter 2: Judy's view of things.
1. Parental Notice

**Parental Notice**

"Hey, Dad, uh, whatcha doing?" Ron Witwicky looked up from amid the several bags of empty cans and bottles, all neatly tied up and awaiting recycling. His son had come to an incredulous (and slightly nervous) halt just inside the kitchen, and stood staring at him.

Ron raised a brow, then gestured largely to the bags. "Recycling," he said.

"Uh, yeah, but, um, wasn't I supposed to do that? You know, while your car's in the shop and all that?" Sam demanded. Ron's car, much to his chagrin, had picked up an irritating rattle three days ago that the mechanics were having trouble tracking down. Bad timing, as it threw off the schedule Ron insisted on, never mind that it his family rarely abode by it. But bad timing or not, Ron would make the most of it. Indeed, Ron was a man on a mission, and much though he would grouse about the repair bill later, this was probably his best opportunity to do what he had in mind, impossible as it usually was to pry Sam away from the driver's seat. Plus, it was a nice change of pace to see the kid standing there, mouth hanging open, actually _wanting_ to do the chores for once...

"Yeah, well, it's your lucky day, son," Ron replied, grabbing the three bags in one large fist, and made for the door. "Gettin' a little stir crazy, so I'll go take 'em in to the depot. Get a little cash back."

"B-but how are you going to – ?"

"Easy," Ron said, and snatched a set of keys off the counter. _Sam's _set of keys. "I'll just take your car."

"But Dad, that's – I've, um, gotta meet Mikaela, ah, n-not, like in twenty minutes down at the mall, I can take – " Sam protested, even as he grabbed at a bag. And when Ron just kept moving, the kid rammed himself in his father's path, feeble attempts at excuses giving way to all out stalling. "Whoa, whoa, Dad, chill! I'm the designated dumper, I can do – "

"Your Mom'll be back in ten minutes. She can take you to the mall. And I'm going." Ron leaned a shoulder against the front door, and at the same time gave the bag a sharp tug, pulling it from Sam's hands. "Now."

But Sam wasn't giving up quite yet. He followed Ron out, protesting the while.

"Uh, seriously, Dad, that's cool, um, but why don't I just take those, and you can take Mom's car – "

"Hey, did I not pay for half of this?" Ron demanded as he marched imperiously down the drive toward the Camaro that was parked there.

"Er, yeah, but – "

"Then I'll drive it. Don't worry, Sam," Ron said and grinned broadly at his son. "I'll make sure you get plenty of chances to do the recycling. Meantime, you can sweep the porch and water the roses while you wait for your mom."

So saying, he popped the door lock bravely doing its job in the face of a completely open window, tossed the bags in the back seat, and climbed in. Sam was still staring at him, agape, and so Ron smiled once more, stuck the key in the ignition, and wiggled his fingers at him. _See ya, kiddo! _The engine coughed to life surprisingly quickly, and as Ron adjusted the rear view mirror, he stared at the clear image of his garage door reflected in it. He pulled the seatbelt on, put the car in gear, and pulled out onto the street. As he rolled toward the intersection, he noticed a black SUV with tinted windows parked by the neighbor's driveway, facing toward his house.

"New car?" he'd asked Tom Denning when it had first appeared.

"Nope," Tom had said. "Carsons've got a live-in nanny now."

_Right_,Ron thought. _New nanny_.

It had been a month since that Simmons fellow had barged in and tried to arrest them all. He still wasn't quite sure why, but he had his ideas. Giving the government car a discontented, defiant glare, he flicked the turn signal and headed for the recycling depot next to the supermarket at exactly the speed limit.

By the time he arrived at his destination, he had determined that his son was going to get an earful about just how loudly he played his music while driving, that for a '76 Camaro, the clutch was in terrific shape, and that the shocks were remarkably springy. He made a mental note to tell Sam to start saving his money so he could get them replaced before a close encounter with a speed bump took out the undercarriage.

Once at the recycling depot, it took Ron all of fifteen minutes to get all the cans taken care of and then another five to get his money from the supermarket next door and a coke for the ride home. The car started easily once again, engine purring happily as Ron left the parking lot and merged into traffic. He sighed as he leaned back in the seat, testing the give a bit, then dangled an arm out the window. Yeah, it wasn't a bad car for being thirty years old and four thousand dollars. Not bad at all.

Too good, really. Ron glanced once more in the rear mirror and took a good look all around. Nope, no black SUVs in sight...

Ron signaled left and pulled onto the highway leading out of town.

Perhaps a half hour later, at the end of a dirt road that ran out next to an old power relay station, Ron slowed to a stop. For a moment, he sat in the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and scowling, before he got out. He shut the door and ran his hands over the rusting frame, following the roof back to the trunk and around until he was standing in front of the car, leaning his hands on the hood.

Ron Witwicky was a practical man. He took things in stride with a glib comment and a great bulldog impression when called for, never mind that Judy was the one who actually bit. It wasn't that he was a softy. It was just that conserving energy was important. Raising a teenager was trial enough to make a man a Taoist to survive the experience, and Ron Witwicky was a survivor in a line of survivors – so he told himself and took pride in it.

But this past month, he just had to wonder whether seventeen years of fatherhood had finally done him in, driven him batty as his great-grandfather was said to have been. It wasn't every week your kid got arrested twice, after all, or that _you_ got arrested with him by a secret government agency. It wasn't every day the government fixed your house and garden up free of charge or paid your son's hospital bills. Ron hadn't even had to threaten to sue and they'd done all that. He'd been suspicious in the worst way, but Sam had insisted he hadn't gotten all bruised up by the Feds, but that there'd been some sort of attack.

"Like terrorists, or something," Sam had said and shrugged. "Buildings sort of fell over."

That definitely didn't happen every day. And it wasn't every evening you got your mug splashed all over prime time.

"Sir, Ma'am, has anything been said about aliens?" a half dozen reporters had shouted as he and Judy had been escorted out of government vehicles in front of a hospital to pick up their son. A hospital that not only was not in their health care network, but was actually the next state over, in the middle of what looked like a demolition zone, of all places. And there had been that crowd of reporters screaming at anyone who came near: "What do you know about aliens?"

Well, there was only one answer to that question. The government's fancy suited goon squad hadn't said anything about aliens, that was for sure. Not one word. Ever. So he had been advised – 'debriefed,' that was the word – and so that was what he'd said. No aliens.

Of course not, because the feds had really only been interested in the four thousand dollar showroom steal he was currently leaning upon.

"You're a hunk a' junk," Ron said aloud, shaking his head. "Four thousand dollars of scrap metal that by the grace of God alone is still running. The paint job _could_ be custom-faded for all I know, and you sure didn't come with any papers. If your muffler doesn't crap out, you'll fail your first smog check!" He gave the hood a shove and felt the car rock slightly on its no doubt vintage shocks. "So," he finished, "what the heck happened that your engine's running quiet again and you aren't spewing diesel out the back any more?"

Ron stared at the car, and slowly, he could feel the heat creep over his face right up to his hairline. "C'mon, you think I'm dumb? " he demanded. "Do I have to count the things that don't make sense?" He held up a hand and began ticking the points off dramatically.

"The car lot and all that glass! The broken radio going off for no reason? The robot thing – the phone call we got from Sam that's still sittin' on voice mail about you being some kinda robot, because that's not something you ever erase! I mean," Ron held up his hands briefly in acknowledgment, "I thought he was kiddin' – Sam's a kidder, got his old man's mouth, I admit it – but then – and _this_," he chuckled, wagging a hand as if to retain a friend about to walk out on a joke, "this is my favorite part! The Feds come, break into our house, bust it up, _kidnap us_, and all so they can ask about _you_? They've got people staking out our street for fun? Because everything in Mission City screams 'War of the Worlds'? Including the reporters?"

He paused expectantly. But still, there was no answer. And the longer he stood there glaring at the car, the more the absurdity of the situation made itself felt. He was a mile off of the highway, standing here in the afternoon sun, demanding that his son's car tell him if it was an alien.

Was this how it had started for Archi Witwicky?

"Huh jeez," Ron muttered, leaning a little more heavily on the car. Just how far into Crazyland was he? Should he be heading straight to a police station or a hospital, just in case he started hearing weird voices from outer space to go with the paranoid delusions?

Of _course_ Sam's Camaro wasn't a space alien. No, if it were wanted by the government and it didn't have any papers, then it was probably stolen – stolen and... and used by drug dealers! The feds were probably tracking dealers whose abandoned car he and Sam had unwittingly bought. That made much more sense of everything, didn't it? Drugs were a problem in every city, after all. And if Sam were calling home to babble about his car being an alien in the middle of the night, then obviously, just like that cop had said, he must be on drugs. What was the alternative, after all?

It made a lot of sense. It made a lot more sense than interrogating his son's car. The only problem was that Ron just couldn't believe it. "Sam's not on drugs." He shook his head. "He can't be."

With a grunt, Ron straightened up. He gave the Camaro another hard glare, then with an explosive sigh, kicked a front tire gently before turning away to look back down the dirt road. So what _was_ it all about? Or was he really losing it, just like his great-grandfather? "Chrissakes, Sam, what's going on?"

There was no answer to be had from the road, and so after a little while, Ron climbed back into the car and began heading back toward the city limits. As he drove, he fiddled with the radio. "Geez, what is this crap?" he demanded, as heavy base came blasting through the speakers, which crackled with static as he struggled to find a decent station.

Another static-laced burst, and then suddenly it died as a clear signal came through, and with it the classic earthy drawl of Dylan.

"_There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief,  
"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief." _

"Thank God," Ron muttered and fell to listening.

'_"No reason to get excited," the thief, he kindly spoke,  
"There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.  
But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate,  
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getti –"'_

Dylan was interrupted by another burst of static. Ron growled and glared at the radio dial. "Aww, c'mon!" he complained, as Dylan briefly flickered back in. "C'mon, civilization's just over the hill!" He gave the dash over the radio a firm smack.

Maybe that did something, for Dylan came back in loud and clear.

And then suddenly, and without warning, rhyme, or reason, in the middle of a line, cut to the Boss.

_"I lived a secret I should'a kept to myself  
But I got drunk one night and I told it  
All my life I fought this fight  
The fight that no man can ever win – "_

_"But it's all right, it's all right  
all right – she moves in mysterious ways!  
It's all right, it's all right – "_

_"And when...  
When the night falls on you, baby  
You're feeling all alone  
You won't be on your own  
I'll stand by you  
I'll stand by you  
Won't let nobody hurt you  
I'll stand by you!_"

"What the hell?" Ron gaped at the stereo. For despite the unholy mishmash of songs coming through, the tuner stayed firmly stuck on ninety-two point five and didn't budge as The Pretenders bled into Johnny Cash turned into Peter Schilling, and on and on. It wasn't until the car's breaks suddenly kicked in and the car swerved that he remembered he was supposed to be driving. But by then, the kid in the Honda had already passed him, horn blaring, and Ron swore.

"Holy - I'm not even touching – _who's driving?! _" The steering wheel kicked slightly under his hands, as if avoiding some minor pothole in the road; without warning the engine revved, and Ron was pressed back into his seat slightly. "Ok, ok," Ron babbled aloud, trying to calm himself, though without much success. "The car's driving itself now. Great. Oh God, this is – " He shook his head, laughing as he helplessly held up his hands. "That's it, I'm gone. Bonkers. Crazyland, here I come!"

As if in response, the music shifted again.

_"Said - said - said: I remember when we used to sit  
In the government yard in trenchtown,  
Oba - obaserving the hypocrites  
As they would mingle with the good people we meet.  
Good friends we have, oh, good friends we've lost  
Along the way.  
In this great future, you cant forget your past;  
So dry your tears, I seh.  
No woman, no cry,_" sang Bob Marley soothingly, and continued in that vein all the way home.

By the time the car pulled into the driveway, Ron had almost convinced himself he wasn't dreaming. Almost as soon as it had rolled to a stop, Sam, who had been slouching on the bottom step of the porch, shot to his feet. And when his father did not immediately exit the vehicle but simply sat there, he hurried over, jogging the last few steps.

"Dad – uh, everything ok?" he demanded. Ron stared up at his son, for once at a loss for words. "Dad?"

And then two pairs of eyes latched onto the radio dial as Marley suddenly flowed over the airwaves once more:

_"In every life we have some trouble  
when you worry you make it double  
don't worry, be happy  
don't worry be happy now." _

Sam coughed. Ron narrowed his eyes, and his son licked his lips slightly. "Great song?" he offered.

"Yeah," Ron said after a moment. "Great song." Then: "Your shocks are going, you know that?"

"Are they? That's – expensive?" Sam hazarded a guess.

"Will be if you don't get them fixed soon."

"Right. I'll just, you know, start saving. Um, maybe Mikaela could fix them..." Sam stood back as Ron opened the door and heaved himself out of the car.

"And your radio's still on the fritz," Ron informed him, eying his innocent-eyed son closely.

"Is it? Huh." Sam sighed and shrugged. "That's really a shame."

"I'm not fixin' it, either. You want it fixed, you get it fixed. And don't drive with the volume up that high," Ron warned.

"I won't."

"'Cause you know I won't be bailing you out if some cop pulls you over," Ron continued.

"No, I know – that day, I am a man, and all..."

"And so you'll be taking _responsibility_ for your actions," his father concluded, and gave his son a clap on the shoulder. "Right?"

Something in his tone or look must have tipped Sam off, for his son opened his mouth to answer, but then paused, hesitating as he stared at Ron with wide eyes that narrowed as the seconds slipped past in silence. "Yeah. Right – absolutely," Sam said finally, drawing himself up just a little. Ron grunted, smiled a little and gave him another slap on the back.

"Good. So – your Mom's not back yet, I see," Ron said, noting the lack of the van. "You want a ride out to the mall?" Sam blinked, surprised.

"You're driving me?"

"Well," Ron said, and gave the Camaro a considering look, "it's not a bad car and I've got a few errands still to run. If you don't mind swinging around for your old man about six...?"

"I'll just get my backpack, then," Sam replied, and took off for the house. Ron, meanwhile resettled himself in the driver's seat, and stared at that radio dial once more. He glanced over his shoulder once at that government car still parked out there, and thought of all the wreckage in Mission City his son had somehow ended up in the middle of, and after a moment, said to the air:

"All right, if you want to play it that way, fine. I don't know who – or what – you are, exactly. You don't want to say, I won't ask. You just better not be kidding about all that – you know, The Pretenders bit and the rest of it."

There was a moment's silence, then Tom Petty crackled to life over the speakers.

_"Well I won't back down, no I won't back down  
You can stand me up at the gates of hell  
But I won't back down..."_

Ron gave a sniff and harrumphed. "You'd better not! 'Cause I'm tellin' you, Judy's got a baseball bat and she knows how to use it. She'll knock your fenders right off."

Was it his imagination, or did the car seem to lift on its chassis slightly, as if drawing its fenders protectively inwards?

Sam appeared at the door, keys in hand, and locked the house. Then, backpack slung over one shoulder, he hurried over and slid into the passenger side, handing his father's keys over. "Thanks," Ron said.

"No prob," Sam replied. Then: "Thanks for driving."

"Like you said, son," Ron replied, as he pulled back out of the driveway and slid the car easily into first gear. _Like cutting butter!_ he thought, and shook his head, giving the gearshift a pleased pat. "No prob!"

* * *

**Author's Notes:  
**

I know, the radio thing – done a million times. On the other hand, it does work...

Songs, in order of appearance:

Bob Dylan, _All Along the Watchtower. _

Bruce Springsteen, _The Promise_.

U2, _Mysterious Ways. _

The Pretenders, _I'll Be There for You._

Bob Marley, _No Woman, No Cry._

Bob Marley, _Don't Worry, Be Happy._

Tom Petty, _I Won't Back Down._

I didn't write any of them – please don't sue me!

Despite Bumblebee's sleeker, newer design adopted halfway through the film, I figure he'd use the old one to keep up appearances with Sam's parents and friends.


	2. Mother's Intuition

The moment the Camaro pulled into the drive and Ron got out of the driver's side, Judy knew. It wasn't just the fact that Ron was driving that tipped her off; it was the fact that Sam was smiling, joking around with his father, totally at ease as he had not been since puberty had hit hard five years ago. Not that Sam was particularly snappish by nature – it was just that as boys became men, there was that whole alpha male wannabe thing to add to all the hormones swimming around.

But tonight, there was no sign of that special teen-aged beta-male sullenness that came of being chauffeured about in his very own car by, of all people, his dad. And as she watched from the kitchen window, she saw her husband glance quickly left and right, and then give the car an approving, almost paternal, pat on the hood.

Oh yes, he knew. They knew. Judy could just imagine how the day had gone. A little squabbling, a little driving, a little male bonding over a shared, yellow secret…

_About time!_ she thought, though she didn't say anything about it when the pair came in. But when they sat down for dinner, she did ask about getting safety glass in all the house's windows, and a newer, sturdier set of doors. She'd already put in an order for an updated security system.

In the end, home improvement went as it usually did: Judy got a professional to install the alarm system, while Ron insisted on doing the rest himself. "_Save_-ty first," as he was fond of saying, and at least it kept him busy lugging large panels of wood and glass around, which Judy thought was good for him. They weren't as young as they had been once, she and Ron – a fact she groaned over every morning now after her new habit of mile-long runs. One of these days – maybe next month? – she was going to push it up to a mile and a half, and in under fifteen minutes.

Sam and Ron, of course, twitted her about it a bit, though Sam did suggest an adult soccer team might be more fun than solitary trots on the sidewalk. He even left a phone number and the team roster of the city-run adult league, which was nice of him. Judy, however, was quietly looking up boot camps in Baker and wondering whether there were some pretext under which she could enroll without Ron getting suspicious. Also, she wondered whether the boot camp people would accept her if she refused to put bullets in the guns…? Was there a policy about that?

Six months came and went, and Sam went to school, and Ron went to work, and Judy put a fence up, bought a steel bat, ran her mile in the morning, and played bunco with her club. She planted her flowers, chatted with Mikaela whenever she came over, and watched the news, which, after awhile, stopped trying to track down the aliens that even the government was finally admitting existed.

"They're rather shy," said a spokesman, a statement promptly undermined by the chartreuse alien who nonchalantly stepped over and past the man, waved to the camera, and headed off on its way to who knew where or what out-of-frame task. And the red and blue one didn't seem shy either, as it explained their reason for being on Earth. It wasn't a very reassuring explanation, but no one could say it wasn't explained with a certain calm, un-camera-shy flare. Judy added "purchase non-perishables" and "look up bomb shelters" to her list of things to do. Once the eleven o'clock news was done, she took her favorite folding chair and a glass of wine, went out onto the patio, and sat there, watching the stars, wondering who had thought a few dots in the sky looked like a bunny. Or was it a camel? Where was Orion again? When midnight struck, she got up, drained the last of the wine, and picked up her chair.

"Good-night," she said to no one, and walked back into the house.

Three more months passed. The news reports were filled with stories about some new 'Star Wars' system under UN control: a listening station aimed at the stars, a truly habitable space platform, open to all member nations – the first collaboration between human beings and aliens. That was nice. Judy poured herself Scotch this time and took her chair out to the yard.

But instead of setting it on the patio, she dragged it down the walk and over to where the Camaro was parked. For a little while, she sat sipping her drink and trying to figure out whether she should be able to see Pisces, and which stars among the ones visible past the smog and suburban glare counted as two fish attached on the same line.

"That was some pretty quick work," she said after awhile, "building that space station. Usually, with government contractors, it's like you never see the end. Seven years Caltrans spent putting up the 105! But space station? Nine months! Was that symbolic?"

No answer. Judy took another sip. "It's ok, I know you're one of them, you know," she declared. "I mean, how could I not, when Ron's actually splitting the gas bill with Sam just so he can afford the high octane stuff at the gas stations? And that's why I want to ask you: is there something we should know about all that stuff on TV?"

Still no response, and Judy sighed, setting her glass down as she stood up. Hands on hips, she glared at the car a moment before saying, "Look, Mr. Camaro, whatsisname your leader explained it all awhile ago, even if he didn't really name names. And we did get arrested, remember? So I know. And it's not that I'm not grateful for anything you, personally, might've done, but there's something you have to understand: Sam's my baby boy. He may be seventeen, but he's still my baby."

She shook her head. "I'm glad you or somebody kept him safe last summer, but I'm his mother. I don't know if you know what that means; I don't even know if those _people_ in suits know what it means! Nobody tells us anything: we're just the parents!" Judy sniffed contemptuously. "For all I know, Sam saved the world last summer. But I'm his mother – I don't care if he _did_ save the planet. He's still only seventeen, and you can bet your tires, Mister, it's not happening again. He can go and be stupid and get shot at legally when he's eighteen, but until then, that's _my_ job!

"So," she finished, "if it means something that you're still here and all your friends are out there in orbit, waiting for something, then you'd just better think about telling me. Because whatever's coming, it's gonna have to get through me first before it gets to him – and that means you, too. I'll ground him if I have to and take his keys! And just you see if I don't take a bat to you if you try anything! A _steel_ bat."

With that, Judy snatched up her glass and her chair and marched back inside. The TV was still on, showing a shot of Earth from one of the space station's cameras. With a miffed harrumph, she punched the 'off' button and went upstairs to bed. But first she checked to be certain Sam was in his room. And he was, face down in his trigonometry book, fast asleep. At his side, homework lay unfinished, the last equations trailing off in a scrawl.

_Definitely grounded_, she decided, blowing him a kiss from the doorway. Tomorrow.

Maybe she shouldn't have had that Scotch, though, because she slept through her alarm the next morning, and, wonder of wonders, Sam was already pulling out of the driveway to go to school by the time she made it downstairs.

"O-oh!" Judy sighed disappointedly through her fingers before lowering her hands from her face. And today was Friday, too – Fridays meant Mikaela and he would go off somewhere together and Sam wouldn't be home until just before (or just after) curfew.

Well, if he came home ten minutes after curfew, like usual, at least it'd be easy to ground him!

Much to her surprise, and Ron's, too, however, she didn't have to wait until 11 p.m. before their scapegrace son pulled into the driveway once more. It was barely even six thirty as the Camaro rolled to a halt.

"He feelin' well?" Ron asked from over her shoulder, as the two of them stared out the window, watching as Sam hurried around the side of the house, making for the back door.

"I don't know," Judy murmured, suddenly worried indeed. She grabbed Ron's hand and tugged. "Come on!"

So saying, she hurried toward the back door, Ron in tow. "Sam?" she called, as she heard the door shut. They rounded the corner to see their son leaning back against the door, lips pressed anxiously together.

"Sam, honey, what's the matter? Why are you home early?" Judy paused, eyes widening, and her hand flew to her mouth once more. "Is it Mikaela?" Sam blinked once, twice, stared at her like a deer in headlights. Oh God, it was! "Oh, honey! Come here!" she said, opening her arms to teen-aged heartache. And Mikaela had been so_ nice_, too...

"Um, Mom?" Sam managed after a moment, slipping free of her embrace, face red. He glanced past her to Ron, then looked down at her again, stepping back a bit. "Thanks, but Mikaela's fine – Mikaela and I, we're fine still. No problems there."

"You are?" Judy cocked her head. "I mean, you are. Good! But... why are you home, then? It's Friday!"

"I know," Sam replied. Drawing a deep breath, he straightened up, reaching to rest a hand on the doorknob. "It's kind of a long story, but short version – there's some stuff I need to tell you. I've been kind of sitting on it since last summer because it's... it's really kind of on the freaky side, I guess, if you, you know, look at it closely... or at all. Um, just a lot of little things... and some bigger ones."

Sam paused and looked anxiously at them. Ron's brow was furrowed, and with his lips all pressed together and mouth all scrunched, he looked like nothing so much as a puffed out horned toad, in Judy's opinion. As for her, she could just imagine her own face, but after a moment, she held out her hands to Sam once more, and when he had hesitantly taken them, she squeezed tightly.

"Honey," she said, as firmly as she could, "it's ok. You can tell us. We'll still love you even if we ground you permanently."

At that, Sam smiled faintly, laughed a little, and he seemed to relax just a smidgen. "Yeah, I know, Mom. Thanks."

"So what's this news?" Ron asked.

"Well," Sam replied, drawing a deep breath, "it's about Mission City. And it's about my car. And... if you could come out back for just a minute, I think this'll all be a lot easier to explain." And at his parents' blank looks, he added: "Please?"

"You want us to go outside?" Ron asked.

"Why?" Judy demanded.

"Because," Sam replied, as he opened the door... and Judy's mouth dropped open even as Ron muttered 'Oh my God!' into her ear. The huge yellow robot crouching in front of the porch cocked its head at them, then raised a hand in greeting.

"I knew it!" Judy whispered. Ron just stared.

Sam, however, gave a lopsided smile, as he swept an arm toward the alien, and said: "Mom, Dad, this is Bumblebee – and he's really been wanting to talk with you..."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: 

Why is Judy thinking of boot camp in Baker? You may well ask. Baker will forever be remembered as the town of two billboards:

Billboard # 1: "One day submachine gun course by World Class Firearms."

Billboard # 2: "No one has taken a closer look at this town. Except maybe the Feds."

I kid you not. Baker may well be a very nice town; I just don't think it'd be my kind of place. And you have to admit – those are some frighteningly funny signs.

Also, a belated acknowledgment - in an e-mail exchange a few weeks ago, An Cailin Rua mentioned something about the difficulty of integrating Sam's parents into a dramatic story, which set me off on one of my usual rants about the problems with having children save the world, which then led directly to this plotbunny attaching itself to my ankle. Thus was Judy's chapter born.


End file.
